


Tomorrow

by themusemelpomene



Category: League of Legends
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themusemelpomene/pseuds/themusemelpomene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness and shadows have always played well together-- perhaps that's why Talon and Malzahar fit together like pieces of the same broken puzzle. </p><p>Talon slips into the elder man's rooms for a night, and lies awake contemplating their relationship, as well as what led them to this point in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solthrys](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=solthrys).



He’d always felt most at home in the dark—it was calming, familiar. Peaceful even.

Then again, Malzahar was none of these things, so perhaps that  _wasn’t_ the reason he found himself returning to this bed at night.

It was never  _truly_  pitch black—Malzahar let off a faint glow, even in his sleep. The light had fascinated Talon at first, and he’d found himself lying awake for hours on end to simply the elder man sleep. In the dark, one could almost forget that the power of the Void flowed through the man like—

Two plump lips parted in a silent sigh, interrupting Talon’s thoughts as Malzahar turned restlessly in his sleep. He’d always assumed that the man’s scarf had hidden some deformity, or perhaps scars from battles past, but then again, Malzahar considered his baby soft skin and dimpled cheeks to  _be_ quite revolting (something about appearing weak or what not—really, the man was obsessed with appearances). Talon had laughed aloud when the elder man had told him, and dealt with a sulking mess of resentment for an afternoon. He had wisely refrained from informing Malzahar that his pouting was endearing, too.

Still, he'd never quite been able to look at the man the same way, no longer able to be fooled by the bluster and glowing. Malzahar was almost disappointingly human in shape, save the fact that his tongue was the dark violet of a clear night sky. Eerie didn’t begin to quite describe the sharp contrast between tanned skin and a glistening purple tongue, and even now the image sent skitters down Talon’s spine (he didn’t mind quite so much when that same tongue caressed his lips, when it traced a long wet line down the length of his dick as dark eyes glowed lilac up at him). So close to the Seer’s side, it was almost too easy to trace a hand down the fine curve of his cheek, to push back the man’s thick dark hair, to press the ghost of a kiss to his temple while no one could see. How could one with so sweet a face be cruel? It was unsettling to him, this vague deception; he liked things to be rational, logical. This beautiful, slumbering visage couldn't quite align with the the man’s reputation, with the unbridled, boundless power that flowed through his veins, poisonous liquid madness.

Nights like this made it hard to care.

Talon attempted to shift away, only to be brought back to the elder man’s side by a rough tug. It was amusing, really—Malzahar was prickly as a wildcat during his waking hours, shaking off physical contact and muscling his way through necessary human encounters.  Hell, the lad didn’t even like to touch the  _ground_ (Talon had asked him about it once, and received a long winded answer concerning the filth of humanity and waste of using perfectly good energy overcoming friction. Needless to say, he’d never asked again), and yet in the vulnerable grips of sleep the man couldn’t stand to be alone.  No matter what way Talon struggled, kicked, or even (the horror) squirmed, he could not escape the iron grip of the man’s well muscled arms. It was suffocating, really, but he tolerated it on some level, for it meant he received the express privilege of watching observing the man without reproach.

Still, the man’s strength unnerved him. Talon was quite used to being the most dangerous person in a room, and the fact that Malzahar could kill him with the snap of a finger still set his stomach churning. Those eyes burned with a bright cold fire, utterly devoid of empathy and passion, but Talon could still reason they were heated with desire as they kissed, as Malzahar dragged him down atop the bed and claimed him as his own.  At any given time Talon wore an array of bruises, from hickeys on his neck to the spattering on his hips; all were gifts from his lover, visual reminders that the man  _owned_ him—well, at least a piece of him. He was a bit resentful that Malzahar couldn't quite 

Of course, they argued—their quarrels could last for days on end, each of them full of cold iron resentment and leaden pride. The tension was almost palpable, a chill that permeated their every action, every word and gesture, and quite often the whole of the Institute would strive to avoid their notice. It would remain until one of them broke, until the longing-wanting-yearning became too much to bear.

It was frustrating, it was infuriating; it was love.

Quick as you please, a smile slipped over Talon’s lips, soft and sweet and contented (he would deny it’s occurrence with every fiber of his being), and he stroked the elder man’s cheek. Curled together as they were, an awkward pile of sharp edged limbs and even sharper tongues, it was easy to simply relax into the moment, to let the light, musical sound of breathing fill the empty space between them. Malzahar’s skin was almost cool to the touch, as though the moonlight that pooled upon the bared skin of the elder man’s chest had sapped the heat away. The window  _should_ have been closed after Talon’s entrance, but he’d been a tad caught up in the moment (gods, had his lips always been so needy? when had he begun to count the breaths between kisses?). Not an angry word had been exchanged, merely the acceptance of mutual need and desire; a bed room was no place for quarrels. It had been a blessing really, to quit thinking and simply  _do,_ to give into instinct and pleasure and the acute, distinct feel of the elder man’s lips on his ear, his hands tripping over themselves in haste. Making up did not necessarily mean giving in—at least that’s what Talon tried to tell himself as he moaned and sighed and fucked. Even their love making was a battle, an engagement to be dominated; every syllable he drew from between the elder man’s dark lips was a victory, every shiver a triumph.

There was nothing in the world more addictive, nothing with stakes so high and busts so low. Every moment he spent with this man was a gamble, every word a bet. Their game was played by unwritten rules, with the boundaries unmarked and ever-shifting. Laying here in the half-darkness, wrapped up in the wonder that was this  _man_ , it was hard to care that they would never work, that their future was but dark and short and doomed. It was hard to care that Malzahar was slipping further and further into the clutches of the Void, that the man awoke some mornings and  _didn’t even recognize Talon’s face, that he’d scream and punish and beat until Talon was but a bloody messy before descending from his frenzy._ The dagger was cool beneath his fingertips, and Talon ran a hand over the blade almost apprehensively; he had promised himself that this would be the night, this would be the night…  

A sigh rang out, faint and sweet and comfortable (Malzahar often made those kinds of sounds in sleep; never in waking,  _never_ in waking), and he drew back, curling into the elder man’s shoulder to breath the warm, spicy scent of his skin.

Tomorrow would be the day, yes, tomorrow… There was always tomorrow.


End file.
